


there is chaos hiding beneath your skin

by Venetia5



Series: crack your rib cage open, peel back the bones [3]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Archie Andrews/Jughead Jones if you squint, Dark, Dark FP Jones II, Dark Fred Andrews, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Oral Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 18:38:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16581929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venetia5/pseuds/Venetia5
Summary: It starts with a phone call, and ends with a knife, and, really, he should have known it would end like this.He calls because he's desperate, no one else to turn to, except his almost-ex-wife, but she's so far away, and he knows she wouldn't help him, not in the way he -wants- needs help. He knows that she'd want to do this by the book, the lawyer's way, involving police and social services and attorneys. They'd take his son from him, maybe even give him back to her, and that's not something he can face, doesn't think he could bear it.So, he calls the only man he knows can help him, will always help him, even if he doesn't deserve it after what he did.It takes him an hour to decide whether or not to pick up the phone, and another 5 minutes to actually press the call button, desperately praying that he'll pick up, that he won't just take one look at the caller ID and ignore it."Well, this is a surprise," the voice at the other end says. "What can I do for you, Freddie?"OrFred Andrews decides to take matters into his own hands regarding Geraldine Grundy and his son.





	there is chaos hiding beneath your skin

**Author's Note:**

> As with the other two works in this series, this is very dark stuff. It comes with the usual trigger warnings that anything related to Grundy come with (i.e. implied/referenced rape/non-con), and it is also now a canonical death, though not canonical in the way that she is killed, and it is described quite graphically, so warnings for that.
> 
> The characters are much darker, and probably not completely in character as such, so I apologise for that. Unlike my last two fics, this is also told in third person, from Fred's point of view, because I thought it would be interesting to explore.

It starts with a phone call, and ends with a knife, and, really, he should have known it would end like this.

 

He calls because he's desperate, no one else to turn to, except his almost-ex-wife, but she's so far away, and he knows she wouldn't help him, not in the way he ~~wants~~ _needs_ help. He knows that she'd want to do this by the book, the lawyer's way, involving police and social services and attorneys. They'd take his son from him, maybe even give him back to her, and that's not something he can face, doesn't think he could bear it.

 

So, he calls the only man he knows can help him, will always help him, even if he doesn't deserve it after what he did.

 

It takes him an hour to decide whether or not to pick up the phone, and another 5 minutes to actually press the call button, desperately praying that he'll pick up, that he won't just take one look at the caller ID and ignore it.

 

"Well, this is a surprise," the voice at the other end says. "What can I do for you, Freddie?"

 

* * *

 

Fred stands there, mute, knows his mouth is slack, his eyes wide, hands curled up into fists at his side, as he watches his son's teacher run her hands up Archie's arms, cupping his face, turning him to face her, leaning up to capture his lips in what would usually be described as a 'passionate kiss', but there's too much hesitation from Archie, too much insistence from her. He can see her nails biting into his skin as he tries to pull away, leaving deep red scores across alabaster skin.

 

The sight makes Fred want to throw up, to scream, to rage.

 

Instead he stands there, stoically watching the scene unfold, listening to Alice's shocked little gasp. A tiny slither of rage curls itself up inside him. She shouldn't be here, none of them should. This between him and Archie and _her_. 

 

He wants to tell Alice to go home and leave it to him, but he doesn't dare. He doesn't know what he'd do if he were left alone here, nothing and no one to hold him back, not even his own conscience. It surprises him, that he could bear the idea of hurting a woman. He thought he'd long since managed to get rid of the darkness that had been festering inside him, but he supposes it never really went away, supposes it just needed something to bring it back to the surface.

 

(He discovers he'd be all too happy to hurt a woman when he finds out what she's been doing to his son, when Alice starts shrieking about _rape_ and _abuse_ and _Archie_ , when he thinks about what ~~could~~ would have continued to happen.)

 

He's at war with himself as they drive home.

 

Part of him wants to be angry, at himself, at Archie for not telling him, at Alice for getting involved, at _that woman_. He wants to rage and scream and shout, the way he used to when he was younger, when he barely had control over the seething hatred inside him. He wants to let it spill out over his skin, let it take control, make him do what _needs_ to be done.

 

But he dares not risk it, not with Archie shaking like he's about to break apart. His fragile son, who may look like the wholesome, all-American boy-next-door, but in reality, is just a scared little boy, whose mother ran off when he was too young to understand, who's more fragile than Fred ever was.

 

Fred sometimes wonders how he, a creature with darkness wrapped so tightly around him it was practically a second skin, managed to produce something as pure and fragile as Archie. It certainly wasn't because of Archie's mother, the woman who abandoned them, who was as tough as nails and just as heartless, whose own darkness could almost rival Fred’s, the reason he was so attracted to her. No, it wasn't her, and it wasn't him.

 

When violent sobs begin to heave their way from his body, Fred wraps his son gently in his arms, whispering hollow words of comfort, reassurances that will never come to fruition, not if he doesn't _do_ something. He holds him as Archie shakes apart, the barely glued-together pieces coming unstuck, until all that's left is the broken shell of a boy hollowed out by his mother's absence.

 

He leads his shattered child inside the house, tucks him into bed like he used to when Archie was small, presses a kiss against his forehead.

 

He stays when a timid voice, thick with tears, speaks up from underneath the duvet, asking him not to leave. He sits on a chair by the side of the bed, strokes his hair, whispers that he won't leave, until Archie's asleep, soft puffs of breath ghosting over Fred's hand.

 

He leaves the room, throwing one more glance back at his son, noting how peaceful he looks in sleep, wishing he could feel peace in the waking world as well.

 

* * *

 

It happens two hours later, after Fred's made himself a cup of cocoa and has finally settled in to get some sleep, sparing a few minutes to finish the chapter of the spy novel he'd been reading.

 

It seems a bit strange, to be doing such normal things after everything that's happened, but maybe it's for the best, to let it go, try to forget about it and move on with their lives.

 

Of course, that would never happen.

 

At first, it's low whimpers, and Fred thinks that maybe Vegas has come to sleep upstairs, and for once he's willing to allow it. It seems like a comfort Archie needs.

 

The whimpers devolve into screams.

 

Fred drops his mug of cocoa on the floor, scalding liquid covering his feet and broken shards sticking into the soles, but he barely notices, instead hurrying along the hallway to Archie's room and flinging the door open.

 

He sees Archie, writhing on the bed, sheets so twisted that his legs and arms are trapped within them. He's shaking, too, and there's a sheen of perspiration covering his brow, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

 

Another broken sob tears itself from his throat, and it breaks Fred out of his momentary paralysis. He untangles the sheets, working them free, and throws them haphazardly towards the end of the bed.

 

He gathers Archie up in his arms once more, tucking his head in the space between his neck and shoulder, holding him, whispering to him, "It's ok, Arch. You're safe, you're safe. You need to wake up. You're safe." He repeats the mantra over and over, until the tremors subside, the screams are reduced to whimpers, and Archie's blurred, unfocused eyes finally open.

 

"Dad," he whispers, sounding more like a question than anything. "I-I-I-," his voice stutters and stops, still shaken from whatever he'd seen in his nightmares. 

 

“It’s ok, Arch, it’s ok, you’re going to be ok, it’s all going to be ok,” Fred hushes him, still holding him, stroking back his hair, rocking him in his arms, reminding him of a time when he held a tiny baby with a shock of red hair in his arms, so many years ago, rocking him the same way, lulling him to sleep.

 

“Go back to sleep, Archie. I’ll stay with you,” he promises when his son opens his mouth to protest. Fred knows that he doesn’t want to go back to sleep, knows that Archie’s so scared of what’s lurking in his dreams that he wants to avoid sleep for as long as possible, but his eyes are already beginning to droop, and within a few moments, he’s slipped back into oblivion. Fred breathes a sigh of relief. 

 

He tucks Archie back under the covers, pulls a chair over from the corner of the room and a blanket from the floor, and tucks his legs underneath him, curling into the chair, settling in for what he knows is going to be a long night.

 

* * *

 

It’s two weeks later when he first considers calling him for help.

 

Fred’s already desperate at this point. Two weeks of not sleeping, neither him nor Archie. Two weeks of therapist appointments, of strange, suspicious looks from Alice as he drops Archie and Betty off at school on his way to work. He knows that she’s wondering why he hasn’t called the police, why he hasn’t said anything to anyone, why he swore her to secrecy. He thinks that last one should be easy to figure out - why on earth would he want the ordeal that Archie’s been through on a full-page spread over page 6, for everyone in Riverdale to read and judge his son? They have no right to judge him, not when they’re so fucked up themselves.

 

It’s after he’s dropped them off, Betty looping her arm through Archie’s, tugging him along towards their friends, he’s driving back home, when he sees her strolling across the street, looking so elegant and attractive with her neatly coifed hair and stylish glasses and slightly higher-than-sensible heels. It makes him sick, to think of her only a few feet away from his son. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles practically white, feet jammed against the floor. He wants to strangle her, to jump out of the truck, to stalk up behind her, put his hands around her throat, and watch her eyes widen in fear as he chokes her to death. 

 

He has to grip the wheel to stop himself from doing just that.

 

He throws the truck into gear and squeals down the street, aware that he’s probably breaking every speed limit to put as much distance between himself and _her_ as possible, driving towards the building site, hoping that work will take his mind off things.

 

It doesn’t.

 

Instead he finds that he has _too much_ time to think about everything that has happened, to think about what he wants to do to her, what he _could_ do to her, if he were willing to risk leaving Archie without a mother _and_ a father. 

 

He’s not. 

 

He could never do that to Archie, despite how much he wants to take away his son’s pain, to take away _her_ life with his own hands, not just for Archie, but for his own satisfaction. To show that no one can hurt Archie and expect to live. 

 

It should scare him, this intense rage, knows that it’s not normal, hasn’t been his normal for so many years, not since he left _that life,_ left _him,_ behind, but it doesn’t. He almost wants to welcome it like an old friend he hasn’t seen in a while, that fury that he used to wear like a second skin, but he knows that that too would hurt Archie, would scare him, and he doesn’t think he could live with seeing fear in his son’s eyes whenever he looked at him. He wonders how _he_ copes sometimes, wonders if Jughead is scared of his father, or if he’s been carved from the same darkness that his father has been. He looks at Jughead sometimes, could almost swear that he’s looking at a younger version of _him,_ and he wonders if history is repeating itself with Archie and Jughead, if they’re going to make the same mistakes, if their mistakes will be so much worse.

 

He only thinks of calling _him_ when he sees the old photo tacked to the board in the office, one that he meant to take down but never got around to, not sure if it was sentiment or forgetfulness that meant it was still up there. It’s the two of them on their first project, Fred’s arm around _his_ waist, _his_ arm slung casually around Fred’s shoulders, smirking at whoever was holding the camera. They were both so happy, so untroubled by life, carefree, in love. He should’ve known that it was too good to last 

 

_Look at us now._

 

It’s then that he begins to toy with idea of calling _him,_ picking up the phone, asking for help, stoking that rage and unleashing it, like they used to when they were young and stupid and so goddamn dangerous together. He remembers the way they used to be, the number of times _he_ was dragged into the sheriff’s office, how often Fred would go down there to bail him out, provide him with some phoney alibi so _he_ wouldn’t get sent to juvie again. 

 

He remembers the things they did, the people they hurt, that glorious feeling that would well up in his chest whenever _he_ would praise him, Fred’s knuckles swollen and split open, mirroring _his_. He remembers so plainly how brilliant it all felt back then, how little guilt he felt for what they did, for what he himself did.

 

He slams down the receiver.

 

He brushes a hand over his face, rubbing at the bridge of his nose to stave off the headache that’s begun to build up behind his eyes.

 

He _can’t_ call _him._

 

It will end in blood if he does.

 

But that doesn't sound so bad.

 

* * *

 

The next few weeks are a painful sort of limbo, ferrying Archie to and from therapy, which only seems to depress him even more; waking up to the sounds of Jughead in the kitchen, the smell pancakes and syrup; seeing Alice peering out at them from behind the curtains as they cross the street, her gaze an odd mix of suspicious and smug that seems to be her default expression.

 

The rage in his gut continues to simmer, flaring up whenever he catches Alice looking at Archie in that way of hers, that look that says "I'm judging you and you are not worthy", and whenever he catches her staring, Fred wants to go up to her, wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she realises that Archie is so much better than her, than them, than almost anyone else in this town.

 

It all comes to a head, though, when she corners him in the supermarket, his basket laden with all the food he’d neglected to buy since _the incident_. At first, Fred thinks she’s simply going to berate him for not telling the whole world what had happened to Archie, _and really_ , Fred thought to himself, _would Alice ever do the same to Betty if she had some sort of dark, shameful secret?_

 

Fred tries to avoid her, but Alice has an uncanny knack of appearing just when you don’t want her to.

 

“Fred,” she greets, and he can see her eyes studying his face with close, careful scrutiny of hers. It was one of the things that made her an excellent journalist, and an absolute pain to hide things from. She always managed to drag out people’s deepest, darkest secrets, and sometimes Fred hated her for it. He knows that she can see the bruise-like dark circles beneath his bloodshot eyes, a testament to the weeks of sleepless nights, and the way he fights the urge to yawn every so often.

 

“Alice,” he replies coolly, already knowing exactly where this impromptu ~~conversation~~ interrogation will be headed, not wanting to drag this out for any longer than he has to.

 

“Care to explain why you still haven’t done anything about that child predator wandering the streets, still _teaching_ our children?” And oh, Fred can hear the sarcasm in her voice, can practically _feel_ the smugness radiating from her. It makes something dark rise up inside him, and vicious little voice urging him on, though to do what, he’s not quite sure. Instead, he sighs and fixes her with a tired expression.

 

“Alice, I’m not going to talk about this here,” he says firmly, in lieu of shouting at her, an urge which grows more tempting by the minute. He can almost picture her face if he did, her lips parted in shock, eyes slightly wide, hands hanging limply down by her sides as she stares at him, before he eyes narrow and she purses her lips and storms off, the way she used to in school. It’s so tempting, but he can see Betty at the end of the aisle, desperately trying to pretend that she’s busy looking at cereals and not looking at the scene in front of her, and Fred isn’t going to do that to her. “Leave it alone.”

 

“Why do you insist on pretending that nothing’s happened, Fred? Why won’t you do something about it?” She calls after him as he walks away. “Do you want Archie to stay fragile and broken, Fred, is that it?”

 

Everything stops for a moment, and the world seems to tilt on its axis slightly, and he thinks he must be hallucinating, because Alice could never be so cruel as to –

 

“What did you say?” He asks, half-turning back towards her.

 

Alice knows that she’s overstepped, crossed that invisible line into cruelty, from the expression on her face, the way her eyes widen and mouth parts as she sees the expression on his own face, the way she steps back slightly, back pressed against a shelf. “I – I – I’m sorry, Fred. I – I didn’t mean it.”

 

But it’s too late, the damage has been done, and Fred storms out of the store, basket forgotten as he throws himself into the cab of the truck and holds the steering wheel in a death grip, trying to slow his breathing, calm himself down before he does something rash, like drive over to Grundy’s house. He’s not quite sure what he’d end up doing, but it would probably be enough for him to end up in jail, to leave Archie without a father.

 

He drives home, trying to bring himself down from this confrontation before he sees Archie, because he doesn’t need this right now, neither of them needs Alice and her accusations.

 

He’s greeted by Jughead as he walks through the door, and for a moment, he can pretend that it’s almost like a normal day, except for when Jughead points out the conspicuous lack of food bags.

 

“Did something happen, Mr A?” He asks, and he’s far too perceptive, much more perceptive than his father ever was, and one day, it will probably end up leading him into trouble, the kind that not even the Jones boys can dig themselves out of.

 

“I had a run in with Alice down at the store. I’m afraid I forgot the bacon, Jug.”

 

“Don’t worry, Mr A. I’ll grab some tomorrow after school,” and Fred really doesn’t know what he’d do without this kid sometimes, doesn’t know how he and Archie would cope if it weren’t for him.

 

“Mr A?” He snaps out of his thoughts at the sound of his name and realises that Jug had been asking him something while he’d been drifting in his own thoughts.

 

“Sorry, Jug, I was miles away.”

 

“Would it be ok if my dad dropped by? He’s been trying to clean up his act, says that he wants to drop by and see how we’re all doing.”

 

Fred’s first instinct is to refuse, and it’s strange, but he knows that FP would be able to sense that something was wrong, because despite him not being particularly perceptive with many things, he’s always known when there was something bothering Fred, would probably be able to figure out that it’s something to do with Archie. He may not be particularly perceptive, but he’s also not stupid, FP can put two and two together.

 

But he doesn’t want to disappoint Jughead, knows just how much it would mean to him, seeing his dad finally cleaning up his act, acting the way a father should, not that Fred really feels like an expert at the moment. _I’m out of my depth,_ he thinks, and shakes the thought off just as quickly. He can cope with this, he has to, for Archie’s sake.

 

“Yeah, sure Jug. I’ll try and make sure we’ve got some food in too. I remember how FP used to eat, like he had a bottomless stomach.” The crack elicits the laugh he’d been hoping for, diffusing some of the awkward tension that had settled in the kitchen after Jughead’s request. “You wanna go and wake up Archie, see if he feels like…” he pauses for a moment, looking at what Jughead has made for them, “burgers and fries?”

 

“Sure, Mr A.”

 

Fred watches as Jughead bounds up the stairs, listens to him to try to corral Archie into wakefulness, and feels a surge of gratitude swell up in his chest. _Always so willing to help._

 

Fred knows that FP would be willing to help too, if not for Fred, then for Archie, for an excuse to let his bloodthirsty side loose and exact revenge, like some particularly twisted avenging angel.

 

His fingers slip into his pocket, fidgeting with his phone as he toys with the idea of calling FP, of letting him help sort their problems, the way he used to sort out Fred’s problems. It’s _so_ tempting, to just press a few buttons and have this all be over and done with.

 

Except it wouldn’t be.

 

Fred doesn’t know if Archie is ever going to recover from this, not fully, at least. He knows that it’s the sort of thing that can torment people for the rest of their lives, has heard it from the first therapist’s appointment he went to with Archie.

 

 _Dealing_ with Grundy might only make things worse.

 

Or it could make things so much better, could ease the guilt in Fred’s chest that’s been slowly threatening to drown him since that night, since he agreed with Archie that he’d keep it secret, that Fred wouldn’t go to the sheriff.

 

He wonders, sometimes, as he lies awake at night, whether he made the right choice.

 

He doesn’t think he’ll ever know for sure.

 

* * *

 

Fred is absent when FP visits. He knows that his absence is conspicuous, that it will raise questions he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to answer, but he can’t bring himself to be there. Not after everything that’s happened between them, not when the temptation to ask FP to solve all his problems is so great.

 

He heads down to the construction site instead, buries himself in work while Archie and Jughead deal with FP, and hopes to God that FP doesn’t figure out what’s going on. If he offered to help, or even said that he was willing to do something about it for a price, Fred doesn’t know if he’d be able to say no.

 

So, he waits. And waits. He waits until he’s sure FP must have gone home, decides that it’s safe to head home, that FP won’t be waiting there for him like the devil waiting to tempt him, the serpent waiting to draw him in with his words, with the promise of something Fred feels he desperately needs.

 

Archie is waiting for him when he pulls up, greeting his dad at the door with a friendly, if slightly abrupt, “where have you been?”

 

“Had to go to work today,” he replies as he hangs his coat up on the hook, sighing as he spots Archie’s own coat flung over the bannister. “They needed me to help with some of the plans on the SoDale construction.”

 

He can see that Archie isn’t convinced, can see it in the way he dips his head in acquiescence, not willing to push for answers, but not accepting the ones he’s been given. He sees more than anyone gives him credit for, and sometimes that hidden intelligence scares Fred, sometimes he wonders just how much Archie sees that others think he’s blind to.

 

“How was FP?” Fred asks, and it almost feels like a loaded question, but he tries to soften his tone, tries to make the question seem perfectly innocuous, like he isn’t asking whether or not FP has really changed, whether he seems like he’s going to fall of the wagon at any second.

 

He can see Jughead’s hesitation, and for a moment, he wonders what happened here, but then Archie speaks up in his usual motor-mouth way, carving straight through the unease that had begun to settle over them.

 

“Mr Jones seemed ok. He was telling us some pretty cool stories about the two of you when you guys were our age. I never knew you were so cool, dad.”

 

Fred huffs out a laugh, amused by his son’s antics, relieved that Archie is able to joke around, that Alice had been wrong, that he isn’t _broken,_ not beyond repair at least _._ “I feel like I should be insulted by that, Archie,” he teases good-naturedly, ruffling his hair in retaliation, as he feels the knot in his stomach loosen ever so slightly.

 

“Yeah, geez, Arch, give your old man a break,” Jughead ribs, and chases Archie off into the kitchen towards the food that Fred can smell, though Jughead himself lingers, waiting for Fred to catch up.

 

“My dad was asking after you, asking how you’ve been, where you were and stuff. I told him that you’re ok, been busy with the SoDale project and stuff.”

 

Fred nods, awkwardly shoving his hands in his pockets as he tries to think of what to say to that.

 

“How is FP? Really?” He asks instead, because for all that Archie may be perceptive at times, he still tends to miss glaringly obvious things.

 

“Finding sobriety difficult,” Jughead replies in an off-hand manner that Fred feels is meant to ease the tension, but only serves to make it worse. “He has good days and bad days.”

 

“I’m sorry, Jug,” he says, though he doesn’t quite know what he’s apologising for; Jughead’s current difficulties because FP couldn’t cope on his own, or maybe for firing FP all those years ago. Or perhaps it was something even older, something that went so far back that he couldn’t bear to think about it.

 

“It’s not your fault, Mr A.”

 

_But it could be._

 

* * *

 

He realises that he should have known that this would happen, that this progress, the apparent return to normality, couldn’t last. He just hadn’t expected it to be quite so sudden, so drastic, so damaging.

 

Archie had seemed to be improving. Even the therapist had said so, and Fred had, naively, begun to hope that maybe, just maybe, things might turn out right, that they might be able to make it back to some semblance of normalcy.

 

He really was naïve.

 

As he pulls up outside the house, he already knows that something is wrong. He’d received a call from Weatherbee’s secretary earlier on, something about Archie and Jughead both missing class, at which point he’d stopped paying attention. He thinks he might have even hung up on her while she was still talking, and he feels guilty momentarily, before pushing it aside in favour of working out what’s gone wrong, because something must have gone wrong.

 

He finds them both upstairs, Archie hunched over the toilet, legs and arms shaking as he tries to hold himself up, though Jughead’s grip on him seems to be the only thing stopping him from falling over, one arm wrapped around his shoulders, the other half around his waist, hand rubbing circles over his back as he continues to choke and gag pathetically into the bowl, small whimpering sounds pushing their way past his lips every now and then.

 

The sight breaks Fred’s heart.

 

He catches Jughead’s eye, who gives him a nod, and they trade places, Fred holding onto his son as he breaks apart in his arms. He holds him as he throws up the contents of his stomach, and then as Jughead places a cool cloth against Archie’s forehead.

 

Between the two of them, him and Jughead, they manage to get Archie back to bed, and Fred tucks him again, promising to get him more blankets from downstairs and a hot water bottle and some toast and water.

 

He leaves the two boys in the room, and finds himself in the kitchen, phone in hand, not remembering how he got there. He looks at the screen of his phone, and finds that he’s already typed a number in.

 

FP’s number.

 

He sighs, wondering if _now_ is the time he should do it, if he should do it at all. He knows that this can’t go on forever, knows that it will eventually drive him mad, this itch to do something, anything, to make someone, to make _her,_ pay.

 

But there had to be a better way, one that didn’t involve FP, or bloodshed, or relinquishing that hard-fought for control over whatever darkness was festering inside him like an open sore.

 

He deletes the number typed on his phone and shoves it back in his pocket.

 

Fred decides to go and see her, instead. He’ll talk to her, convince her to leave or say he’ll call the police, something, anything to get her out of their lives, so that he doesn’t have to see her again, neither of them has to, so that just maybe they have a chance at moving on with their lives. Maybe.

 

He delivers the water and other supplies upstairs, and tells Jug that he’s going out, that he left some files at SoDale that he needs, asks Jug to look after Archie, who’s already fast asleep.

 

Jug agrees, but Fred can see that he doesn’t believe the excuse, that Jug knows Fred is up to something, something that involves the music teacher, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t offer judgement or advice, and for that, Fred is truly grateful.

 

* * *

 

By the time he reaches ~~Grundy~~ Gibson’s house, he’s begun to think that it wasn’t a wise idea, that it’s more likely he’ll kill her himself when he sees her. His anger, darkness, whatever it was, had bubbled up inside his chest on the drive to her house, so much so that it felt like he might drown if he didn’t release it.

 

He pushes it down, clenching and releasing his fists several times before the darkness finally recedes. Slightly. It’s enough that he feels confident he won’t hurt her, won’t cave her head in with the nearest heavy object, or place his hands around her throat and squeeze until she stopped kicking.

 

He knocks on her door, and the small, dark part of him, the one that he tries to lock away in the deepest recesses of his mind, delights in the way her eyes widen slightly, and her mouth parts, shock, _fear_ , written all over her face.

 

She’s _scared_ of him, and he revels in it, in her fear.

 

She stutters as she greets him, asking him what he’s doing here.

 

“I wanted to talk to you about Archie,” is all he says before he gently (because he doesn’t want her to start screaming or attract attention) pushes his way inside.

It surprises him, how nice her house is, how quaint and floral and simple her home is. He wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting, but floral wallpaper and corduroy armchairs wasn’t it. It certainly doesn’t look like the house of a child abuser, though, he supposes, he wouldn’t really know what a child abuser’s house should look like. Dark décor and a dungeon, perhaps?

 

He hears her shut the door, and something inside him, those dark instincts that he keeps buried deep inside him, that he attempts to ignore, tell him, _you could kill her now, and she wouldn’t even be able to get out, to scream for help. It could all be over so quickly._ ]

 

He tells his instincts to shut up.

 

Instead, he says, “I want you to leave.”

 

He registers the shock on her face, which morphs into indignation, and then something too close to smug for Fred’s liking.

 

“I have no reason to leave, Mr Andrews. No complaint has been made, no witnesses have come forward, or evidence produced. I haven’t done anything wrong,” she says, in that saccharine sweet, butter-wouldn’t-melt tone, and Fred clenches his fists.

 

He wants to pick up the frying pan that she’s left on the counter and smash her head in, until the kitchen is covered in a pool of her blood and her limbs are twitching and all she can do is watch helplessly as he raises the pan to strike her one more time and –

 

He pulls himself from the fantasy, but his fists remain clenched, and he clenches his jaw, not trusting himself to speak, nor even move. Everything in him is screaming for him to _hit her, hurt her, kill her, make her suffer,_ but he can’t. He can’t leave Archie on his own, can’t leave Jughead to deal with Archie on his own, because they’re both relying on him now.

 

“I’d like you to leave now, Mr Andrews.”

 

He does. And he hates himself for it.

 

When he returns home, he opens up his liquor cabinet, pours himself a glass of scotch, and knocks it back. He pours himself another one as Jughead is walking down the stairs, who eyes him wordlessly. He knows he shouldn’t, but he finds himself pushing a second, empty glass towards Jughead, and then pouring a glass for them both. They both deserve it.

 

At about two in the morning, Fred finally manages to himself to bed, Jughead having gone up a couple of hours earlier when Archie started whimpering in his sleep, promising Fred that he’d take care of Archie.

 

Fred hates himself for doing this to Jughead, wonders if he’s beginning to remind Jughead of FP with his habit of drinking to forget, to numb himself, to numb the anger that festered inside him like it did in Fred. He hates himself, but he still can’t pull himself away from the bottle until it’s half-empty and he can barely lift it.

 

He collapses on the bed, not bothering to get undressed.

 

Tomorrow, he knows he’ll have to face the consequences of his actions tonight, of what this might mean for Archie, for him, for whatever hope they had of getting rid of the woman. But, for tonight at least, he can numb everything, can slip into a dreamless sleep where he feels nothing.

 

* * *

 

The consequences, however, are worse than the nightmares he has, sometimes.

 

She doesn’t call the police or tell anyone about Fred’s impromptu visit to her house in the middle of the night, and Fred knows it’s because if she did, it would all have to come out, that she’d come out of it worse than he would.

 

No, instead she approaches Archie, the one time that Jughead isn’t there to ward her off, or to steer Archie clear of her.

 

From what he can gather, from what Archie manages to stutter out while he calms down from his panic attack, from what little Jughead caught near the end of their encounter, she’d cornered him in the music room, after he’d finished a practice session with Val, and she’d threatened him. She’d told Archie of Fred’s visit, had told him that she could call the police, that she could have his father taken away from him, that she could reveal the whole affair, and that Archie would come out at the bottom, that no one would believe him, that she’d convince them all that she was victim, and that they’d believe her. That she would get away with it, and Archie would be vilified, and he’d lose everything he cared about.

 

Jughead tells Fred that as soon as he’d appeared, she’d scampered off, a mocking smile on her face, had told Fred that he’d wanted to hurt her, and for the first time, Fred can see the darkness inside this boy, a mirror image of his father. It scares him.

 

Archie had virtually collapsed, and Jughead had briefly detoured them to the nurse’s office to get a sick note before bringing Archie home, where Fred had found them, Archie curled up in Jughead’s lap, his face wet with tears, a trash can containing the remains of his lunch, Jughead running his fingers through red hair, soothing him as he tried to calm his breathing.

 

Fred leaves the two of them on the sofa watching one of the old movies that Jughead loved, listening as he whispered to Archie about the characters and the plot, and how the cat had ginger hair as bright as his. He peeks round the kitchen door-frame in time to see a small smile on Archie’s lips, but as soon as it appears it’s gone, and there’s blankness in his place.

 

Fred picks up his phone and begins dialling the number. He hits the call button.  

"Well, this is a surprise," the voice at the other end says. "What can I do for you, Freddie?"

 

* * *

 

They agree to meet at Fred’s office at the SoDale project, and meeting in a dark place, when no one knows where he is, where he could easily be ambushed and attacked by a man who would have every reason to do so, doesn’t fill him with any concern. That’s when Fred knows he’s made the right choice.

 

This has to be done now, before any more damage is done, before he beats her to death with his own hands and can’t cover it up, can’t ensure that he and Archie will be safe, that Archie won’t be taken away from him.

 

FP is already waiting for him in the office, and he starts to ask how he got in, before realising that it’s a pointless question. He knows how FP got in, knows because they used to do it together, breaking into places they weren’t meant to be, doing things they weren’t supposed to do.

 

“I need your help,” he says, in lieu of a greeting, because they’ve known each other too long, been at odds with each other for too long, for small talk to be appropriate. He knows how FP has been (not good), knows what he’s been up to (nothing, besides leading the ~~most dangerous~~ only gang in town), knows how his wife is (ran away to Toledo to escape his ~~drinking~~ problems).

 

“So I gathered,” FP says, his tone bored and patronizing, and Fred knows that he’s angling to start a fight, the way he used to when they were younger, and FP had something he wanted to say and no way to say it.

 

But Fred doesn’t have time for FP’s difficulty in expressing his emotions, nor his usual bullshit. He wants this done and over with, as soon as possible, so they can all just move on.

 

“You got something to say, FP, say it. Otherwise, can we get on with it?”

 

“Always in such a rush, Freddie. You haven’t even asked how I’m doing. Pretty sure your daddy raised you better than that.”

 

He’s baiting him, and Fred knows better than to rise to it, but he doesn’t have his head on straight, hasn’t since this all began.

 

He throws the first punch.

 

It only ends when they’re both exhausted, panting on the ground, blood dripping down their faces, Fred’s staining his white shirt (he should have known better), FP’s pooling on the black leather of his jacket.

 

“I need you to help me get rid of someone,” Fred finally pants out, when he’s caught his breath slightly.

 

“When you say take care of…” FP drawls in that familiar way of his.

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

And he does. He must. Fred knows that it must be so painfully obvious to him. FP has always been able to read Fred like a book, has always known when he’s hurting, or when he wants to hurt.

 

“So, who are we going after?”

 

“Geraldine Grundy. Jennifer Gibson. Whatever her real name is,” Fred says as he heaves himself up from the floor. He’d forgotten just how hard FP could punch, which seems like a ridiculous thing to forget, considering how many times their argument had come to physical blows. “She was, is, Archie’s music teacher.”

 

He pauses, wondering how to explain this, trying to force the words from his throat.

 

“She raped him.”

 

Saying the words isn’t a weight lifted off his shoulders. It’s like a ten-tonne rock has been dropped on his chest, and he can barely breathe, and he knows that he’s about to have a panic attack, in front of FP, knows that there’s nothing he can do to stop it and –

 

FP puts his hands on Fred’s shoulders, rubs circles into his arms, encourages Fred to _breathe, just breathe._

 

He tries, but every breath feels like he’s adding to that weight, his chest tightening.

 

“Fred. It’s gonna be ok. We’re gonna sort it.”

 

Fred finally lets a couple of tears fall, the ones he’s been holding back for months, trying not to fall apart for Archie’s sake. But here, with only FP to see, with FP to hold him, he finally lets them fall.

 

After a few minutes of breathing deeply, after the panic has subsided and he’s brushed his tears away, he says to FP, “How are we going to do this?”

 

FP grins in response. “The way we always did.”

 

* * *

 

Fred shouldn’t be surprised to see the two Serpents waiting for them outside the trailer-office, but he is. He thinks he vaguely remembers FP making a phone call at some point, though everything was a bit hazy for him after FP agreed to help him. He remembers the immense flood of relief that he wasn’t going to have to try and figure this out on his own, that he would finally be able to move on from this. He doesn’t remember much more than that.

 

He vaguely recognises one of them as Joaquin – Archie had mentioned that Kevin was dating a Serpent, had pointed him out when they’d driven through the Southside on their way to the therapist’s office. The other one doesn’t look much older than Archie, but he’s much broader and taller, has an air of _danger_ surrounding him, evident in the way he holds himself, in every move he makes. Fred hopes Archie never tries to fight someone like this, knows that his son, his gentle son, would lose to someone with so much danger and darkness inside them.

 

“Joaquin, Sweet Pea,” FP greets them with a nod as he descends the steps. He grips Fred’s upper arm, practically hauls him to the truck, as though he’s scared Fred might run off screaming into the distance. It wouldn’t be unreasonable, except for the fact that FP knows Fred, knows his darkness, knows what he’s willing to do to protect those he loves, to protect Archie.

 

“I need you to grab some supplies,” he says. “We’re going hunting.”

 

His smile is vicious.

 

Fred feels his own lips curve to match it.

 

* * *

 

In the end, it was so much easier than Fred had imagined it would be.

 

They’d set it up so that it looked like she’d be leaving town for another job, had had one of the female Serpents leave a message, and had Sweet Pea and Joaquin draft a letter of resignation and file all the right paperwork – they’d created a paper trail that even Tom Keller wouldn’t be able to unravel.

 

And then it had come time to complete the final act.

 

FP had asked him if he wanted to drag her death out, to make her suffer, but Fred had never had the stomach for it, not back then and not now. He’d shaken his head, and FP had placed a knife in his palm, had guided his hand across her throat when Fred’s hands had begun to shake, the thought of the end being so close almost too much.

 

He’d watched, entranced, as the blood had arced across the room and showered the plastic-covered walls of the room in a fine spray, and had then trickled down her neck, a bloody, red waterfall, droplets dribbling down her throat, rolling over collar bone, disappearing into her cleavage.

 

FP had slipped the knife from his numb fingers, had placed that in a plastic bag and handed it to one of the Serpents waiting outside the door. Then he’d stepped back into Fred’s space, had pushed him up against the wall and kissed him, biting at his lips until he drew blood, a droplet beading on Fred’s lower lip before FP licked it away.

 

 

Fred had moaned when FP’s nimble fingers worked their way into his boxers, slipping round his cock, stroking him until his world narrowed to the feeling of FP’s finger working up and down his shaft. Fred had heard someone moaning, couldn’t be sure if it was him or FP, could feel the way his breath began to come in short pants the closer he got.

 

When he finally came, his vision had gone black, and he’d felt his knees buckle, felt FP’s hands beneath his arms, slowly lowering him to the floor.

 

When he came back to himself, he had been kneeling in front of FP, who’d already had his pants unbuckled. Fred had known what was expected of him, had taken him in his mouth, sucked him all the way down, and it had been so familiar that it had almost felt like déjà vu. Fred had remembered the way he’d done this after football practice kneeling between FP’s legs while he leaned back against the lockers, stroking Fred’s hair as he was doing then, filth spilling from his lips about how good Fred was for him, how good he looked on his knees for him, how good his mouth felt, how he wanted to spread Fred out across the benches and take him, right there and then, where anyone could walk in and see them, see how well Fred took him.

 

FP had moaned, had tightened his grip in Fred’s hair and come down his throat, had told Fred to swallow every drop, before pulling him in a for a kiss filthier than the last, exploring Fred’s mouth with his tongue, only pulling away when both of them could no longer breathe.

 

And then he’d dropped him at home, the bike rumbling back down the street and out of sight.

 

* * *

 

When Monday morning comes, Fred feels lighter than he has in a long time.

 

He gets up early and makes pancakes for breakfast, chocolate for Archie and strawberry for Jughead, turns on the radio, and settles into his old, familiar morning routine.

 

When he emerges from upstairs, Fred watches as Jughead scrutinises him, trying to puzzle out why Fred is suddenly so cheerful, why he appears to be so free. Fred thinks he might have figured it out when a small smile tugs at the corner of Jughead’s lips and the boy turns his attention to the stack of pancakes on the table.

 

Fred knows that nothing will ever be normal again, that it will never be how it used to be, but standing there, in the middle of the kitchen, with the radio blasting out The Beatles, the smell of pancakes and syrup wafting through, and the sounds of Archie tripping over his own feet as Jughead calls for him to ‘ _come down before all the pancakes are gone’_ , Fred feels that things might at least be alright.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Unlike my other pieces, I did want to leave this with a vaguely hopeful ending (which is subsequently extinguished in 'constellations'.
> 
> To those wondering about the timeline of these works, this piece it set directly before (by which I mean a month at most) ['constellations'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10723056), which is then followed by ['drowning'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13961193).
> 
> Also, if there is any interest shown for it, I might write a Fred/FP piece for when they were young hell-raisers, and possibly a couple of other pieces in this slightly darker universe.
> 
> Please leave con-crit in the comments if you wish too, and kudos is love. Thank you very much for taking the time to read this :)


End file.
